


all the seedlings

by wegotodecember (imaginedecember)



Series: the carry home waltz [4]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 11:08:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17405810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginedecember/pseuds/wegotodecember
Summary: After the storm, all four of them talk about prophecy and of where they could go next.And Arthur thinks of trees, of how they can be bows or forests, of how all the seedlings could transform into so many different things.There's many roads ahead.But, first, this.The final admittances.***Must read previous installments. Spoilers for the whole game.***





	all the seedlings

**Author's Note:**

> **You must read the previous installments to understand this. Spoilers for the whole game**. Read without knowledge of the previous installments at your own risk.
> 
> Little background:
> 
> Arthur doesn't have TB. Hosea didn't die, he got captured but survived. Dutch killed Micah on his own. Arthur has an extra ability called Mother eye which blends human nature and nature together. 
> 
> And this takes place after the storm where Milton and Ross were killed.
> 
> This is more like an emotional, rambling mess coupled with a little bit of good old prophecy and admittances. 
> 
> Thank you again to all who read, like, bookmark, and comment! <333.

Arthur looked out at the mountains, somewhere in the Grizzlies, near Lake Isabella.

Mountains were snowy, sure, but the storm had still done a number on the area. Arthur had trudged one inch through the feets and feets of snow and had been winded. He recorded it now, noting, with some humor, that it took several measuring sticks and that he was a lucky son of a bitch for having more than one.

He noted the temperature. It was on its rising track. Tens. Twenties. 

He turned behind him, followed smoke, and smiled when he saw John trudging with his whole body wrapped in its own self-made hug. John broke the hug he made for himself to wave at him and Arthur waved back.

It felt like equality, like solidarity, like setting his hat on John’s head and handing over the torch.

It felt like…

Arthur lumbered and rolled his way through the heavy snow. His heart pounded and he felt sweat on his brow which melted the snow that was starting to stick to his beard. But he got through it and met John at the tip of the hill. He looked down, at the source of smoke, and, then, at John, who appeared so Earthy and woodsy amongst solid, stark white. A wolf looking for his moon.

The smile was stuck on Arthur’s face and John poked at it. “Geez, we should ‘a made amends a while ago.” 

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Had a lot going on anyways.” He grasped John’s finger and to make amends, for those words sounded a little too harsh, as if being friends with John again had never been on Arthur’s mind, he kissed the gloved skin and pressed his smile into the cells there that must’ve felt it, even through animal skin and fabric. “Learned some things. Never stopped thinking of ya, though. Just…there was stuff I needed to take care of and I did. On that mountain, I thought it was it. And all I cared about was getting you out.” And something in him…well, John beat him to it.

“Y’know you told me a lot of things, Arthur.” The anger there was a little sizzle shock. Arthur looked into those eyes, those scars, the depths and pools of hurt. “It ain’t much different. Mary and you. Me and Abigail.”

Arthur confused, “Why? How?”

John huffed. “We was both chasing things that didn’t want us no more.” And, then, explosive, “Just like the gang, right! We was both chasing things that just…none of it was worth it.” And John continued, unstoppable now as the wheels turned, as the gears got loose and started spitting and spouting, “Abigail she…just…love’s there y’know but it’s friendship now. And I don’t know what the Hell happened with that Mary-.”

“God, all of you really didn’t like her.”

John threw his hands up. “She didn’t want you, Arthur, or, at least wanted to erase a version of ya like she could twist up your insides and make her your own puppet.”

“John-.”

“But I want you Arthur! Like this! Like you…now…which ‘s all jumbled up with who you were, who you thought you was, because you sure as shit were two people at once don’t give me that damn crap about me being the only one who didn’t know who they was, and I just…love you as you are. With me. Now. And I want that to be…more than just a second or a day. Just always. Alright? And I ain’t changing who you is. I love who you are. Does that…please tell me I ain’t, no, I know I ain’t making much sense. Just can I stop rambling yet or-?”

Arthur grumbled out, “John,” before he cradled his jaw, scratched his thumb along those scars, looked at wide open, trembling Earth, and kissed him, slow, sure, strong. “John.”

Because, hell, two people at once.

Huh. Arthur really needed to look in the broken, shattered mirror. All them advice that he gave John. He sure as shit should’ve followed what he said.

Because he had been two people at once. Dutch’s son and Arthur himself. Finding Arthur as he was without Dutch’s son attached to it was a mighty step. Finding himself loving John and being loved back was even mightier.

And all them feelings on that damn mountain came rearing back and damn it most of all, yes, above all, fear. Arthur kissed John harder, didn’t dare to open his mouth out of fear but John coaxed him, eased him into the reminder that there’s pain but there’s also love, there’s also this.

So, Arthur licked John’s mouth open and delved inside. Their tongues met and it felt like gun shots to the heart, it felt like not being able to breathe, it felt like mountains and eagles, it felt like all his abilities were shooting through him. Reds and yellows like sunsets and spilling lanterns, like targets and the past. Greens of spring and rebirth, of the animals, the deer that bounded through his dreams, his nightmares, guiding him without a single recognition or question. Blues of oceans and salty pools, human nature and nature itself easing and smoothing together. To feel summer radiating through him and winter around him. Dichotomy. Two people at once.

Damn it, Arthur was himself. And he could have this. He could. He would. 

Take a gamble. Take a leap. Like John just had with those words of his and his actions, with his returns, with his love. He broke the kiss, but kept John close, within a hairs breadth and admitted, “I was afraid…” Again, “I was afraid that-.” It got choked in his throat but John was there, moving to cradle his jaw, to keep him there with him, close. Yes. This. “I didn’t want the outlaw life. Maybe…maybe I never had. Maybe it was all the senseless killing that got to me. I don’t know no more. But I do know that I wanna help folks, that…that I want love and righteousness and I want peace and I want…I want you too, John.”

And, John, softly, between a thumb swipe along Arthur’s lip and a quick kiss, “You’re everybody’s light, Arthur.” But it was his turn for advice too as he narrowed his eyes at him. “But don’t go wasting away on me, alright? Let me handle some of the stuff too.”

And that Arthur could do. He nodded. 

John patted his cheek. “Now, c’mon, Dutch says he got a new plan. Let’s hope it don’t mean killing someone or us.”

Arthur huffed. “If he does, I get the honors.”

John cried out, “Hey, you said I could handle some of the stuff too!”

Arthur dragged him in and then down the hill with him. They trudged through the snow together to the campfire where Dutch and Hosea were huddling over some piece of paper. Arthur had to take pause and John slid into a stop next to him. They hung there, in silence, taking this image in that was so very much like the past, like when it had been just a few of them together like a true crime family. John’s hands were quick to grab on to his wrist and Arthur allowed the tug, allowed John to slide in close. “I don’t like this. Not one bit.”

Arthur swallowed a heart shaped lump. “Think we can trust ‘em again?” John looked at the camp, at Dutch and Hosea, and then at Arthur. He shrugged. Arthur responded to his own question, said, “Maybe Hosea but…Dutch?”

For wounds were always fresh, even with time, even with remorse and trying. John knew that. Arthur knew that. John, with fingers taping rhythm on the seam of Arthur’s glove, “You always have my back.” 

Arthur whispered an “Always” into the boy’s hair and John smiled. At least they had each other this time. Fighting off the world and the pain without him…John spent a lot of his time forgetting those days, that weird dizzying, blank space where he threw himself into working to get everything going for Abigail and his son all to forgot the mountain, the departing, the what he thought was the end. On this hill, he leaned into Arthur, let the man’s warmth refuel him, before he side stepped down the hill, the sound of Arthur following him keeping him sane and safe.

They got there just in time to hear one single word.

“Washington?” Arthur tasted the word, sounding it out, but nothing came up in his mind about it. Hadn’t seen no Washington on any of the maps he knew. 

He sat down on the log across from Dutch and Hosea, John plopping down next to him. The two of them shared a glance, one that spoke of caution, before turning to Dutch’s watchful gaze.

“Yeah, Washington.”

“Ain’t that a president?” Arthur asked. 

John rose an eyebrow, then turned to Dutch. “I thought we was done with robbing.”

“That’s a fair point, Dutch, well, coming from John, it’s an even better point.”

“Arthur,” His name was punctuated with a sharp bite on Arthur’s ear. “Ow. You-.” Arthur went to swat his giggling stupid ass but-.

“No, you-. Hosea, please.”

Hosea pretended to be busy elsewhere, his whistling turning up and up and louder and louder the more the conversation went on. He appeared to be too busy swishing herbs together and Arthur watched them swirl with a chuckle. He’d be doing the same thing if John and his stupid mouth was running. “We’re gonna live on some poor fool’s grave, then,” he said.

“No!” Dutch threw his hands about, “Washington the state.”

“State.”

“Yes, it-.” Dutch could feel Hosea’s eyes on him so he breathed out, shoved back his frustration and explained, calmly, well, as calmly as a damn firecracker can, “When you have many towns together, that is called a state. And Washington state is West. It’s…uh…”

“Somewhere above California, thereabouts.” Dutch narrowed his eyes at Hosea who’s pipping up was a little overdue. But then, he smiled, as Hosea pulled out the paper of the farm, their farm, that Dutch had given him. Hosea kneeled in between John and Arthur, smoothing out the wrinkles of the paper and pointing this way and that. “Dutch got us a farm. It is up to you boys whether you come with us but I expect you two to at least visit.” The no nonsense tone softened as Hosea looked at John, at, well, the wandering of the boy’s gaze as he stared elsewhere. “John, I know you have Abigail and Jack to worry over so-.”

“We will not hate you nor leave you behind, John.” Dutch’s words wavered a bit and he cleared his throat but he kept his eyes on John. “I’ve already made that horrible mistake before. I ain’t gonna do it again. Unless someone’s shot me. That’s the only way.”

John’s mouth got soured and twisted up. Arthur was leaning into him, his knee knocking into John’s, and his hands encased around John’s hands. “Sure, Dutch, whatever you say.”

Dutch just exploded at that. “Now, now, son, this ain’t some blind faith trek into the damn woods. This is…” He looked at Hosea whose warmth and love in that damn gaze of his was doing something fierce to Dutch’s insides. And yes, this. He continued, “This is about love, John, Arthur. I don’t want you to just agree with me and follow me because that’s not what this is about now. No, I insist-.” He looked at Arthur, at the clenching in his jaw at that word, and sighed, “I insist that you choose what is best in your heart, not what is best in mine.”

Hosea folded up the piece of paper and tucked it into his jacket. In its place, he pulled out two tiny maps. “I marked exactly where the farm should be so keep this with you boys always. And, like I said, I better see your hides visiting or your hides will be strung up on our walls.”

Dutch couldn’t help it. He laughed. But his sons were just so silent, that it tapered off.

Hosea set the maps down on the ground and stood. He joined Dutch on the log, sitting close to him, and sharing a small, withered glance. 

“I already chose what was in my heart before, Dutch, and I remember you not liking that very much.” Arthur was speaking, low and gravelly, but his eyes were on John, who looked as good as spooked.

Dutch frowned, his heart seeming to squeeze and surrender, to break asunder. Then, Arthur said, “’Scuse us a moment” while dragging John up, practically kicking, screaming, and growling, away from their little makeshift camp and to an outcropping of trees.

Dutch watched them go and then glowered when Hosea burst out laughing. Hosea had told Dutch plenty of times that John was a little too much like him and Arthur was a little too much like Hosea and, boy, did that just shine through. He shoved at Hosea’s shoulder, and growled, “Oh, shut it, Matthews.” Because there wasn’t anything more annoying than a smug Hosea Matthews. But Hosea kissed him sweetly and, alright, maybe it was worth him being so damn annoying and right all the time.

+

Arthur pushed John up against a tree, his hands encased around the boy’s waist to keep him still. John shook and wiggled but it was pointless. He blew air out sharply, tossing his black hair up and around his head. Arthur watched and then, a shock, “Been thinking since earlier that I wish you would’ve told me about Eliza and Isaac when it happened.” John continued, staying still, even as Arthur’s hands slipped, in frozenness, away from John and to hang uselessly at his sides, “It makes sense now, why you kept pushing me to be a good father, kept telling me to go with Abigail and Jack. And I know what you’re gonna say now. You’re gonna tell me the same damn thing.” And after that explosion, that leaking of fire on to antler bone, John stared straight at Arthur and through and Arthur’s heart seemed to seize up, quiver, and wither.

John’s hands, warm, soft cradled his jaw and John’s eyes, Earth and mud, encased him. It was John now, caging Arthur in, and Arthur felt, for once, like he was the one who was gonna bolt because this was new, this was different, this was tinged with the same fieriness that their previous conversation had. Yes, another heart to heart in some random pile of trees, in the dead of winter. 

This was like Arthur meeting his shattered form in the mirror, in the dark, in the lonely night.

Arthur, exposed. Arthur, vulnerable. Twice in one day. Better know who you are.

“Now, I think that everyone in this stupid world deserves good things, especially when there’s a good man standing here with me.” John’s voice was so sure, strong, even with the waver in how he talked. And Arthur was transfixed. “And there’s been so much hurt-.” One of John’s hands, Arthur wasn’t sure which, they all just blurred together into a salty lake, pressed against his heart and his heart kicked at the touch, at fire burning straight to it. “Damn it, and I don’t wanna hurt you again, Arthur, or, hell, I don’t wanna hurt no more. ‘M sick of it. And I think…god, I think I deserve both.”

Arthur didn’t know what the hell John was talking about anymore. His head had gone all stuffy. His brain stuck on ‘both,’ tasting that word and trying to find a definition, a memory, a something to latch on to. And his heart was pretty much still choking on the ‘hurt’ and the ‘sick’ and the love that was itching in every word John spilled between them and the wanting that John was doing, for Arthur as he were, as he was. 

His brain got to his tongue first. “Both?”

John nodded, sure as shit. Arthur let John kiss him. “Both.”

Shook his head. “I don’t know what you’s saying no more.”

John frowned. “Both. I want…these weird visits at the van der Linde Matthews mango farm or whatever they’s got going on up there and I want to make sure Abigail and Jack are good, that I’m still there for them, and I want…” John paused. His hands, like currents, washed up to Arthur’s body and rested there. A dying, drowning man. “I want you, Arthur. Too. I want you too. Both. Well…three’s, but you get what I mean, don’t you?”

But all Arthur saw were crosses. He groused, “Gonna come home to crosses and regret everything you’ve ever done and never done.”

And, John, with narrowed eyes and with this prickly bristliness that felt so smoothly familiar to Arthur asked for what felt like the eightieth time an echo of Arthur’s own advice, “Whaddya want, Arthur?”

Arthur tilted his head down, down, until it was tucked underneath John’s chin. John huffed, at the sudden weight, but he wrapped his arms around Arthur and beautifully caged him in. And with voice cracking, Arthur said, “No one’s asked me that before.”

John kissed his hair, his cheek. “Well, fuck ‘em. I’m asking now.”

Arthur laughed. This beautiful, stupid fool. They were both fools, really. He inhaled John’s scent, wild smoke and Earth and cool, frigid winter. And sweat and musk. And horses from riding all damn day. He eased his hands up John’s jacket, toying at buttons and patches of wool that stuck out. The jacket was cold but John’s warmth was thrumming beneath the surface and John’s heart was going in a steady, sure rhythm. If Arthur slipped into Mother eye, he’d see waves of summer.

And with all this holding him up, Arthur took the moment to dig around in his heart.

What did he want?

Well, he seemed to have known from the beginning but had once been too blind to understand it, to reveal it. But now? He had said it earlier, at the cabin, here in the mountains after the storm, but he repeated it now, for John, and to make it even more true, set in stone.

“I guess I want a life where I can help folks and where I can put them abilities to good use.” He paused then added, “With you, preferably.” 

“With little visits to the weird farm?” John asked. And Arthur, laughed, the sound kinda worn as if it had been asleep in his heart. 

“And to Abigail and Jack.” Arthur thought hard on that, added, “Get them some protection too for when we’re gone.”

John nodded. “Course.” 

Quietly, “Y’know, ‘m not much of a wanderer no more.”

John grumbled. “Yeah, yeah, couldn’t see me settling.” He grabbed fistfuls of Arthur’s jacket, shaking him a bit as if that would shut him up. “But with you? Maybe.”

Arthur picked his head up and kissed that stupid mouth of Johns. “Maybe he says.” John’s pout got smothered, smoothed away. Then, “Where we gonna live then?”

Arthur hummed, his thoughts spinning through maps in his head. “How do you feel about somewhere in between?”

Somewhere in between. That’s what they were. Sons of Dutch’s and Hosea sure but sons of their own selves just the same.

+

And, that night, caught halfway between sleep and wake, John rolled into Arthur’s side and Arthur wrapped an arm around him. They had both woken from some noise. Clanking of pots and tin cups. The kick starting of a dead fire.

Arthur grumbled into John’s hair, “Old men can’t sleep.” John’s laugh was sleepy tinged and sounded half underwater. It was, well, cute. Arthur frowned. God, John was making him leak sap.

“’S hope that’s not them killing us.”

Arthur sighed. “Jesus.” He, very unfortunately, untangled John from him, batting away grabby hands and everything, to rise. He smoothed and wiggled his clothing around. They hadn’t had much so he was stuck sleeping in trousers, and a billion layers. He puffed out frigid air, and eased the tent flap back to reveal starry night illuminated by fire.

Dutch, in red and black again, standing before the fire, holding a novel, and Hosea, yellow and green, hovering next to him, pointing out certain words and discussing them. They both looked disheveled like sleep was a faraway dream for the dead.

It was…

It made Arthur feel hollow, dug out. He kneeled out of the tent and stood like a looming tree soldiering the area above a lonesome, tiny figure.

Dutch and Hosea both snapped their heads up at him.

And he met their gaze, strong, sure. 

And Dutch he…beckoned him forth. “Arthur, look.” There was something shaky in his gaze, something that made Dutch hesitate before flipping the book around. Arthur grabbed it, nearly bending the cover in half, already feeling tinges of annoyances. He tilted the book towards the fire so he could see. 

And what he saw was strange, it was the past illuminated just as the stars were under and surrounded by the fire. He grumbled, “What’s this about?” Because sure reading was an interesting think to take up in the dead of night but reading something this…this important was stranger. Holding the book, Arthur’s hands felt several sizes too big and his whole heart felt like spinning and jumping through fields, splashing through water before spinning and jumping meant running from the law and splashing meant drowning.

Meant taking a leap.

His hands jolted, almost sending the book into the fire but Hosea grabbed it, grabbed him, and gave him a smoldering glare. “Now, Arthur, this is important.” 

But Arthur wasn’t having any of it because one could take the weight of lies only a few times before they died. And he didn’t look at Hosea when he thought this. No, he looked straight at Dutch, at the man who had his arms down to his sides, whose body was open and whose eyes were glassy and wide.

And, then, god, John-.

“Next time we’re having a party, remember to invite me.” John nicked the back of Arthur’s head with his fingernail and Arthur turned to him to…well, he was gonna tease him but there must’ve something in him that was screaming for John whipped at Dutch. “Okay, now that it’s not a party, care to tell us what’s going on?” Us. That word. Arthur thanked his stars for John because, for once, speechless and frozen, John filled in for him. Had his back. 

Hosea began to take the lead but Dutch touched his shoulder, and stopped him. So, it was Dutch that said, “There’s some crazy things in this world. Ghosts, witches, time travelers.” Arthur remembered a few of those that he had stumbled upon. “So, it shouldn’t be much of a shock to have there be prophecy.”

Arthur felt like he was back at the beginning of this day, testing the word Washington. Now, he sounded out, “Prophecy?”

Hosea cut in, “It’s things that are set in stone, that are made to be a part, and whole.”

“And this book has it all. It has…well, it has us.”

John tilted his head to the side and Arthur scratched his chin. They parroted a teetering, “What?”

Hosea took the book from Arthur’s slacked hand and showed them the drawing. The robed man with the tilting, spilling lantern, illuminating the doomed ship spinning and searching underneath a full, howling moon for a land that’d never come. And the deer antlers cradled and hooked around his neck.

Arthur remembered asking what all those words meant, and feeling what they had felt like. Remembered counting all the different little details he saw, drawing them in a near perfect echo, and listing them off before he went to bed like they were dancing in flock amongst the walls of his sleepy brain with the bounding deer as his guide through nightmares and dreams alike. 

And oh…oh.

The robed man with his abilities, remembered saying, “Why am I reading this? This don’t make much sense.” This was fantasy or something or other. He wanted to read those crime novels, be like Hosea and read all the fancy ones, not these predictions about how the world spun its fate, how it could also spin the eyes to seeing more than what they were capable of.

John, sudden, next to him, grabbing him and yanking him this way and that. “Sure, as shit, Arthur, that you?” It was all a jumbled mess. Cotton and dancing through fields of it. Of drowning. Of taking leaps.

And, then, a ringing. Clear.

A break in the tree line, an end to the field. 

Sky and stars above, spinning.

Doomed ships finding their landing.

Lanterns illuminating and burning their target.

He gently pushed John aside and heaved out, “’S that why you-. With all this shit with Micah. It was to, what, protect me from him?”

And, oh, oh. John, quiet, next to him, suddenly begging and Arthur let him into his arms. John was trembling at the idea of it. He voiced these fears now, open, and glassy and salty like lakes of it pooling on his cheeks, “If Micah had…jesus, Arthur, imagine what he would’ve done.” And it had been a long time but the injuries from the O’Driscolls came roaring back and his body ached and sizzled with a shock at its return as if he was being beaten again, as if he was being chased by the lion and left for bleeding death. But then, his mind. You can render a body useless and return but a mind? He held John tighter.

Dutch eased closer. “Arthur, I had done many wrongs and I had killed so many people. But if Micah had taken his eyes off me and had found out about you, imagine how worse it would’ve been. Everyone, gone. Everyone!” Dutch was explosive, was a lantern spilling fire, molten. The captain of the doomed ship roared. “We had lost a lot of men and I will mourn for them and I will regret every choice that I had made but there was one that was right and that was making sure that Micah never knew about this.”

Arthur met Dutch, step for step, and it was them, Hosea and John pushed to the side, beside the fire, under the stars, snarling and breathing the same molten air. Arthur ground out every word, “And killing him from the start wasn’t a part of any of these plans?”

Dutch frowned. “No.” Short. Clipped the edges of the heart and left them to bleed. 

And, Arthur, guided by shattered mirrors, lonely night thoughts, and deer raising its head up to meet his maker, said, “Then, you should’ve let him kill me first.”

“No” This time the ‘no’ was a rumble, it was thunder, it was crashing the doomed ship into land. “Do not be a martyr, Arthur. You are just…goddamn it, you are my son, you are Hosea’s son, and you are John’s other half. You are a part of our whole. You are…everything. You are what sews us all together. It ain’t me. God knows it shouldn’t be me.” 

And the deer was bounding.

It was leaping towards the cliff edge.

To soar beyond in its belief of wings. No limitations in its movements. Freedom in its very marrow. Mother earth guiding its every muscle. Love and family, building blocks of its heart. What sews together the whole.

The deer met Arthur’s eyes, and Arthur sobbed. 

It broke and burst out of him like a bow sliding between the deer’s eyes and bursting through skull to brain and out, away. He nearly bent his body, shattered his spine, felt his lungs expand past his ribs, and his heart got lost in a shot and zing.

Fell on snow covered Earth and screamed with the force of the sob, with the tears that were being ripped out of his soul. 

John, at his back, his movements shaky, his voice frightened. Hosea so close and near, his hovering like mother earth under hooves. A leap and bound with no worries. And Dutch, kneeled in front of him, hands cradling his jaw and smoothing away rivers rushing with salt. 

How it felt to be loved.

Damn it felt a lot like being sewed together anew into something whole.

It felt like seedlings being cradled for forests and growth.

“Jesus, Arthur, c’mon.” John was whispering in his ear and Arthur tilted, followed his voice and John kissed him, gave him something stable. “Ain’t never seen you like this.” The fear was there and Arthur did his damnedest to soothe it away. He grabbed John’s hands, interlaced them with his, and squeezed. He looked at Earth and handed the mud a river to loosen its stuck worries.

“’S okay.” He inhaled, sharp, rough. Battered. He wheezed a bit, coughed. “’M alright. I’m alright.”

John choked out a laugh. “Yeah, okay. You just fell apart like – god. I ain’t never seen anything like it, Arthur.”

Arthur squeezed his hands again and kissed him. “Shut up, idiot. Next time you sob on me, I’m ‘a tease your stupid ass.”

John huffed. “What’s any different than any other day?” 

Arthur laughed. “Oh, sure, that’s right.”

Then, quietly, “You okay, Arthur?” Arthur spun a bit on his knees to look at Hosea behind him who was a blurry figure. He wiped at his eyes, his cheeks, and nodded. Hosea was looking at him like he was a child again. It made Arthur feel once again small and exposed. He had been doing a lot of it lately and his poor battered heart felt strangely light with its yellow wallpaper stripped.

“’S little weird.” John nodded at Arthur’s words, his gaze now on Dutch.

And, Dutch, he was quiet, he was observing them. His hands moved from the ground to Arthur’s shoulders and Arthur looked at him in question. They hung there, in silence. “I don’t think forgiveness is in me quiet yet, Dutch.”

And Dutch nodded. “Of course. I don’t expect it.” He looked, then, at John, and John bristled at the attention. It almost made Dutch laugh. But he said, instead, “And from you, John. I don’t expect it from you, either. All I want is for you two boys to allow me to try again. That’s all I ask. Prophecy or not, I know that us four are a complete set and that can still be possible, I hope.”

Arthur reached for Dutch, broke the silence, and gave in, confided. His hands met Dutch’s and Dutch pulled him in, almost toppled him, as he hugged him tight, and strong. Sure footing to bound off of again.

The hug was new. Usually it was pats on the back, good jobs thrown in there. But this? Maybe unforgiveness would yield its hardness. Arthur let the hug linger before he pulled away and looked around him, at John to his left, and Hosea to his right, at their faces which seemed soft and untroubled.

Begin again.

Bury a new seedling and watch it rise and grow forests.

It sure as shit was as good as prophecy.


End file.
